Page 23 of Protected By Her Daddy

“Did the rest of your clothes arrive?” I ask casually. The credit card bill told tales of her online shopping spree.

Wren’s cheeks color delightfully. “Yes, everything fits perfectly. Thank you, Gabriel. It was more than generous of you.”

I also purchased a few items for her, now nestled safely in my wardrobe. I picture her in each piece I selected, the pale pink and baby blue satin clinging to her skin and complementing her hair and eyes. One day, I’ll see her in them, but damn, patience is a virtue I’m running short on.

“Gabriel?” Her voice pulls me from my dangerous thoughts.

“Sorry, thinking about work.” A lie, but a necessary one. My mind is a whirlpool, and she’s at the center.

“Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s perfect,” I assure her, and I mean it because she’s here with me.

“This place feels so cozy this time of the year,” Wren observes as we step into the warmth of the cafe, her breath still visible in the crisp air.

“Yep, nothing beats hot coffee on a cold day,” I reply with a nod, scanning the room out of habit. You can take the man out of the military, but you can’t take the military out of the man.

There’s the usual crowd: the barista who knows our order by heart now, the couple engrossed in their laptops, and the retiree with his newspaper that seems permanently affixed to his table. And a new guy, tucked away in a shadowy corner. His eyes dart around, and he emits a jittery energy that raises the hackles on my neck and sets my teeth on edge. Probably nothing, but…

“Let’s get this to go,” I suggest, my gaze not leaving the twitchy guy.

Wren tilts her head, puzzled. “But we always sit?—”

“I forgot I need to make a phone call,” I cut in smoothly, scooping our order from the counter before she can protest further. Fabricating lies isn’t my style, but when it comes to Wren’s safety, all bets are off.

She shrugs. “Okay, if you say so.”

I steer her toward the door with a protective hand on her back. Outside, the air bites at our cheeks. Yeah, winter is fast approaching. We walk briskly back to the penthouse, my mind working double-time: Need to monitor the man from the cafe and ensure Wren’s college situation is sorted. Oh, and figure out how much longer I can resist her without going completely mad. Just another day in paradise, right?

We take the elevator up to the penthouse, and I shuffle through the door with Wren, balancing the bag with the cinnamon bun snugly tucked inside.

“Let’s eat in the kitchen,” I suggest.

Once we’re seated at the marble island, we split the cinnamon bun between us without ceremony. No plates, no fuss. Just fingers pulling apart the warm, sticky pastry as we sink into a comfortable silence.

Wren devours her cinnamon bun with an innocence that makes my chest tighten. I nearly lose it when she licks icing from her fingers. God, how I want that tongue wrapped around my cock.

“Delicious,” she declares, licking a stray crumb from her lip.

“Always is.” I manage a smile. “I love watching you eat.”

She blushes. “Having a full stomach is still a novelty.”

“Do you like Italian food?”

“I don’t know. Never tried it. Until I came here, I was more of a dried noodle gal,” she says with a wry smile.

“There’s a place not far from here. La Dolce Tavola. Would you like to go on Saturday night?”

Her eyes widen. “With you?”

I chuckle. “That was the idea.”

“Uh, yeah,” she says like it’s a trick question. “I’ve only ever seen that place on influencer posts. It’s always booked months in advance.”

“Italian is my favorite food. The owner always holds a table for me.”

“Of course he does, Mr. Moneybags,” she teases.

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